this is what we are fighting for?
by blakmagevamp
Summary: SLASH HPSS.the war was over, light had won, and only Harry Potter had suffered. but what lingering effects did voldemort's attention leave Harry with? 'addiction is a terrible thing' thought Harry to himself. OOC warning angst
1. Chapter 1

'Addiction is a terrible thing,' thought Harry as he raised the bottle of firewiskey for another sip. His gaze never wavering from the roaring fire as he took another gulp of liquid; he sought the comfort of the alcohol that poisoned his veins more than ever. The safety and solitude of his chair and the hot presence of the fiery grate did much to calm his nerves; the alcohol did even more. He tore his haunted eyes from the fire and he looked around the Gryffindor common room; it was his sixth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It had been almost exactly a year to the day that he'd destroyed Voldemort.

He remembered that day quite clearly. It began like all extraordinary events on a normal day, three weeks from Christmas. The holidays had already started. He was content to shop alone for gifts to give his friends. Even with the extra training he had received he could not have stopped them. From the safety of the shadows, the Death Eaters had stunned him and brought him to their half-blooded Lord.

Unsurprisingly it was on Christmas Day itself that what the wizarding world considered a miracle happened. The Boy Who Lived knew it was nothing but a streak of luck that he managed to beat the Dark Lord. The monster had summoned him for a Yule surprise-extra torture, oh the joy of it. Harry had thanked him accordingly, sarcasm dripping from every word that left his mouth. It was a rude enough thank you that the monarch of the Weasley family, Molly, would have crucioed him herself. After three rounds, Voldemort had come close, kneeling beside him, taunting the so-called saviour. The boy in question was not so far lost in the pain that he didn't see a chance when it presented itself so nicely. He grabbed the bone wand and he muttered the soul destroying spell that he had found out about one day while doing research. Hermione would be proud.

With their Lord dead and his murderer the-boy-who-lived in possession of a powerful wand, the cowardly Death Eaters began to panic. They attempted to apparate away, but Harry had smartly raised an anti-disapparition ward, so rendering their attempts in vain. They were screwed and they knew it.

Harry had taken his bloody revenge, no longer the good little Gryffindor. He killed them all and each time remembered what they had done to him during his stay, the pain lingering in his bones made it easy to remember. His anger and energy fuelled the dark curses and doubled them unbearably. The caverns they used as a base echoed with their screams; the sounds resonated for days. It was only when the last Death Eater, Lucius Malfoy, had his thread of life waver and snap that Harry broke the wards and went to the Ministry. They shattered Voldemort's wand and proclaimed Harry Potter a hero once again. Everyone celebrated for weeks after, everyone that is except the Boy Saviour.

Although he smiled and laughed and attended the parties as was expected of him, he did not feel the glee and happiness and nor did he have the will to smile in contentment as he should have done. He was dirty and tainted and he knew this; no other did. People constantly asked him for the story of what happened on the glorious day, for his story of Voldemort defeat. They wanted to know the victory as if their own, but Harry never told them; he only said that the monster was destroyed and they need not worry any longer.

After being treated in St Mungo's for his injuries (he obliviated the medi-wizards afterwards), Harry returned to Hogwarts. He wanted nothing more then to return and get on with his life. He knew he could never have the innocence and happiness that he had had before; he would never have the same innocence that his friends still possessed. He tried to fake it though and it worked-mostly. For seconds strung together he forgot all about the events of Christmas, but a sideways glance from someone always reminded him.

Though he was being hounded by the press, he had not given any interviews; it gave him a reason to stay inside and he was happy to have that to hide behind. It was more often then not though he sneaked up to the Room of Requirement and got soundly drunk, and always to the point of unconsciousness. He would wake up shortly before his classes would begin and arrive precisely on time. He saw no point in going anymore though. The spell he'd used to defeat the evil bastard would smoulder the soul of the victim into nothingness and the caster would in turn absorb their knowledge and magic. This being so, Harry found his lessons to be extremely easy. He cast new spells on his first try and even in Potions he found an improvement.

As Snape had been found out as a spy months before the capture of Harry Potter, Harry had not killed him in what was now commonly called the HP slaughter. Harry was fond of the name, although he told no one as he feared that they would lock him away if they knew he enjoyed himself. He was the only one left alive that knew about the events in the caverns; or at least, that was what he believed.

The Potions Master had taken to looking at him oddly; it was an almost knowing look.

'_But that is not possible'_ Harry reasoned to himself in his own mind.

He came back to himself in the present and he heard footsteps on the landing. He turned his head minimally to see his friends there. Ron and Hermione had realised their stupidity at the end of fourth year and had started going out after they had proclaimed their undying adoration for each other. They had been going strong ever since and Harry knew that at the end of their seventh year Ron was likely to propose.

They spotted Harry in the chair and they blushed, embarrassed, as they removed their hands from the inappropriate places they had been at.

"Erm…sorry, mate," said Ron, flushed. "I thought you'd gone up to bed earlier. Couldn't sleep?"

The hangings on Harry's bed were always closed and they gave the constant impression that he was in bed and sleeping. The truth was that had just not bothered opening them since the end of his fifth year.

"Yeah, couldn't sleep," muttered the insomniac raising the half empty bottle to his lips. The liquid burned him but he was grateful. His friends did not understand his need for the alcohol yet they no longer questioned him about it; they just knew he needed it.

His friends, never ones to desert him even when he wanted them to, came to sit on the battered couch that was beside his arm chair. They watched him as he lifted the bottle and he was unsure if they realised or even knew the full truth about his addiction; they knew he drank but to what extent they were unknowing. The slow burn that travelled down his throat was a pleasure and he sighed; however, it could equally have been pain, he thought on reflection. Although fire whiskey was most certainly not the most intoxicating drink he could get his hands on, it was his favourite by far and it burned the most.

The three friends stayed in the common room for most of the night. The sun rose and splashed the room in its colourful rays; Ron and Hermione were still cuddled up on the couch as Harry stared into the fireplace avidly. The dawn made the two love birds stir and leave to catch a couple hours more rest and Harry promised to do the same; he had no intent of honouring his words.

The Christmas Holidays passed in much celebration as wizards were more then happy to celebrate two grand occasions on one single day. Harry was only happy because it meant one less party to attend. He found that a combination of Yule and the celebration of the defeat of Voldemort party was much better then having two separate ones. He still couldn't stand the one party though; he was always eager for the party to end as he wanted to get back to his addiction. His only consolation was being able to indulge in his public addiction, not that they classified it as that, but it was not the same. Heroes do not have addictions. Heroes were perfect little angels that were mounted on pedestals for all to see. Heroes were not tainted or dirty. Heroes were not like Harry Potter.

He had taken up smoking after one particularly stressful party; he had gone outside for some fresh air to discover that others had had the same idea. They however, had wanted polluted air instead of clean. He was offered a smoke by someone unknown and he had taken it. He cosseted himself of it soon after every party. It was one of his very first addictions, but several parties later a reporter had caught him in the act and had exposed his secret happiness. It was no longer his secret habit yet he continued to smoke anyway; firstly because he liked it and secondly so that no-one would delve deeper to find something else amiss with him.

He smiled and nodded to everyone in turn before he quickly left the festivities. He instantly lost his content air when the doors were firmly shut behind him. He trudged up to his haven; the Room of Requirement knew to expect him and to wait with its door wide open for his gloomy presence. He looked inside and was pleased with the open and inviting scene he found. Everything was done in shades of grey or black. There was a fire place with flames licking the side of it. An armchair much like the one in the Gryffindor common room was facing directly in front of it, a table beside it. It held one of the most wonderful sights the saviour had ever seen, a bottle of firewhiskey with an ash tray beside it, a new pack of New Ports awaiting him. He collapsed lightly, not weighing much, into the lounger, immediately lighting up a fag. The click of an open bottle and the sound of drinking could be heard with the occasional inhale, over the crackling of the f lames.

It was only on the third bottle and second fag that Harry relaxed and let his glamour charms drop. He did not want anyone to worry about him so he had placed various illusions upon himself to make him look fit and healthy and to and hide the unpleasant side effects of his insomnia. The scars he had received in the three weeks of his imprisonment and subsequent torture from the Dark Lord also became visible. Their presence relaxed Harry even more and reminded him that not all the pain was mental and emotional but that it was also there physically. That the pain he did suffer had indeed happen. He did not know why but the thoughts seemed to comfort him. The most noticeable scar was an up side down cross that bisected his left eye lid and went down his cheek. It made him look truly satanic, giving off the impression of being malicious and overall not a very nice person. Voldemort had cackled himself silly at the irony; Harry Potter, the Boy Who L ived, dangerous? Now who would have thought that?

Harry was captivated by the blaze, so much so that he was unaware of the door opening. He heard the gasps though as the people caught sight of him. He threw the glamour charms back up quickly and hoped they would think the scars tricks of the light. He looked to see who had interrupted his peace.

A drunken Sirius Black was with an apparently equally drunk Severus Snape. They were standing in the doorway and it was Sirius who had been the one to gasp; it made the act more dramatic in his influenced state as he had clapped hand over his mouth. Snape however just stood there and gaped like a fish as the Saviour stood up slowly.

"Close your mouth Snape, it isn't becoming," Harry suggested darkly; he hated being stared at. "What are you two doing here anyway? Drunk? And in each others arms…"

He noticed a bed appear in the newly enlarged room; it clued Potter in rather suddenly.

"Never mind." He muttered softly and looked down.

Then he started laughing and falling back into his chair with the force of his mirth. It felt good to be happy again and to be able to feel the sound coming from his heart instead of his vocal cords. He was still chortling slightly when he asked them a very obvious question.

"Do you two even know who you're holding?"

"'Course I do," slurred Sirius, "Harry, meet Steverus."

Harry rolled his eyes; he could not stop himself and really had no idea how his godfather had survived this long.

"And you, _Steverus_, do you know who you're groping?" he asked, using the name Black had used to address the Potions Master as he had not bothering to touch that subject quite yet.

"How could I not know who I am 'groping', as you so childishly put it," sneered Snape, loosing some of his malice as he almost fell over. He pointed in the general direction of Sirius who was still on his arm, yet still missing him by about two feet he said. "This is a pretty person." Severus looked very satisfied with his answer.

Harry couldn't hold it in any longer; he started laughing again until he slowly but surely got himself under control again.

"Sorry to disappoint, but Sirius you're holding on to Snape, Severus Snape. And Professor- you're groping Sirius Black."

"Preposterous!" Snape snapped as he stuck his large nose in the air, acting for all intents and purposes like an arrogant brat.

"Very well, turn and look at each other if you don't believe me."

Both men turned and as expected stepped back with a scream.

"Black!' Snape shouted, " What are you doing here? Where's my date?" The Potions Master looked from side to side and behind the ex-convict for his imaginary date, as if the other man was hiding him.

"What, me Snape? Where'd Steverus go?" he too started looking around, all the while leaving Harry in fits of laughing hysteria. He finally had the mercy to cast a Sobriety charm on the two wizards, so ending his amusement. As soon as the charm hit them, Severus got up off the floor where he was searching for his lost date and stood straight. Sirius just sat on the floor looking confused before he gathered his wits the fastest; he was well used to the effects of both alcohol and the charm.

"I… err… think I am going to go back down stairs," and without looking at Snape or Harry he fled. The Potions Master watched him go silently, but instead of leaving, the man walked up to be beside where Harry, who was occupying his beloved chair. A second materialised beside it and Snape sat down. The boy beside him was confused and he wondered why his teacher had not fled. However, before he could grab the firewiskey that was on the table, Snape snatched it and downed a couple of inches of the murky liquid. The man then turned and scowled at Harry.

"Did you have to do that?'" he growled, "I almost had him where I wanted him!"

If Harry had been drinking at that moment he would have spat out his mouthful of liquid.

"You _knew_ who it was?" he choked, more then a little surprised and now intrigued.

"As if I would get drunk enough not to know-you can smell the mutt from fifty yards away anyway. The wet dog smell trails him everywhere. Alcohol does nothing but blur the edges."

"So you were actually trying to sleep with my godfather?"

"Yes and it could have been great blackmail for many years to come."

Severus sighed wistfully he was still clutching the bottle, and Harry, unwilling to summon another lest he expose his secret, took another fag from the packet on the table. He lit the white stick and he blew in softy before he exhaled. He revelled and loved what it was doing to his lungs and the smell. Some moments of silence followed before Snape felt the need to break it. Harry was annoyed that the man had destroyed his quiet peace.

"I would appreciate it, Mr. Potter, if you would keep that incident silent."

"Sure, not a problem. Who could I tell that would actually believe me anyway?" replied Harry teasingly.

"True enough."

The quiet was resumed, leaving both occupants to their thoughts.

"I trust you'll keep the glamour a secret as compensation for my word," said Harry after a quite moment.

"I shall tell no one," replied Severus, curiosity edging his voice, though he refrained from commenting.

He left soon after his forth bottle of alcohol as he had nothing more to say to Harry. The door shut and the Saviour of the wizarding world immediately picked up the bottle, gulping down near half of the remaining contents. The steady burn and the slow heat- he loved them both. The one thing wrong with Snape's presence was the fact that he didn't wish to give to much away about his new self, like his fondness for drink. He couldn't release the glamour either, even if the man knew about it. 'Blurring the lines', the man had said, of reality. It didn't matter who he was, not anymore, only what he was. And unlike popular belief these days, Harry was human.

A/n: hey hope you liked this; this is my new story as you can obviously tell seeing as it's the first chapter. I ask that you review and take a look at my other stories, and thank to my betas for checking this story over. REVIEW!


	2. Chapter 2

The end of sixth year came and went with nothing worth a mention happening. The summer was spent at Grimmauld Place, the old house that belonged to Sirius Black. There was no need for any sort of blood ward and the ex-convict had had his name cleared, which left Harry with a choice of where to live. Like any other person would have done in his place, he chose to move out of his tiny bedroom with bars on the window and into a large room with multiple large windows. Though the house was still under the Fidelius charm, as Harry did not want the many reporters to find him, loads of people did visit over the two month holiday.

The house had no Room of Requirement or any secret chamber that would endlessly supply the Saviour with booze; therefore he improvised. He would sneak out several nights a week, as many as he could manage. He would go to clubs and bars, though not for the dancing or the pretty people that frequented the places. He was after the alcoholic drinks and the pounding music that was always being played. The Boy-Who-Lived found that the throbbing rhythms did almost as much for his nerves as the steady presence of flickering flames.

It was here in the muggle clubs that he would let his glamour drop; he knew he was dead sexy and that the scars he had enhanced the 'bad boy' image that only he could pull off so well. Under the strobe lights, tightly rapped in leather and fishnet, the wizard saviour was a God amongst mortals. He would sit darkly in the corner drinking scotch that was, luckily enough, not watered down; he appeared dangerous and appealing to everyone in sight, both female and male. Harry would come often to relax, knowing there was always someone willing to help.

His time with the Dark Lord had marked him, physically and mentally, but even now he was not scared of sex. He found that sexual relations often helped, even after…Voldemort's intimate attentions. He just wouldn't think about those times; instead, he would loose himself in the ecstasy of it all. He would enjoy it and live only for the moment. Or he tried to at least, but nothing could compete with his addiction; nothing could drown out the memories so well as the alcohol that he tried to marinate himself in. Climax only lasted seconds and gave him only a moment of mental relief, whereas vodka and the like completely took away his ability to think, giving him peace for a lot longer then he dared hoped was possible.

After drinking and dancing and occasionally having sex, Harry would return to his inherited home, replace his glamour and feel content. It really was a wonder that no one ever noticed his absence. He would muss up the bed so it would appear to have been slept in, at least sporadically. Harry had not actually slept in the room since he and Ron had shared it.

With no-one being any the wiser as he slipped in, past dawn once again, he shed the clothes that clung to his body. He would wash away the smell of sex, smoke and alcohol before heading downstairs to look every bit as innocent as the world thought he was.

The few times he couldn't get away he would lock himself in his room and remove his small but vital stash of Firewhiskey that he had asked the Room of Requirement for. He would drink himself into unconsciousness, hoping against hope that no-one would ever again notice his absence. No one would notice his quick and silent departure from the land of the living as he revelled in the burning darkness of nothingness. Of course, had someone noticed a certain black eyed Potions Master per say, they said nothing. Instead, they left their Saviour to his only pleasure.

When school started (it was Harry's seventh year) he was reunited with everything in his haven, returning to his routine. The Room of Requirement was always unchanged whenever he approached it; the place was a perfect constant in his life. The Saviour was more grateful for that then anyone, if they knew, could ever imagine.

He went to classes day in, day out, without struggle and always perfect and always easy. The onyx eyes watched him permanently though unnoticed, and the saviour called himself trained? A warrior?

Half a year passed without any great disturbance, until Christmas came around yet again. Harry Potter had never known a good Christmas at the Dursleys; he had only experienced the joy of the holiday at Hogwarts, though he no longer did anymore. He wished it would pass, as it did in his youth when it ignored him. The second since…the experience…

There was a party, and it came complete with the constant flash of cameras and small hurried steps that signalled Harry's escape. He ran to the magical room and barely stopped to open the door. It was with an impressive twirl that he landed in his chair, a bottle already in his hand. He started drinking the Firewhiskey and he closed his eyes as the burning liquid passed scorched his gullet and went down into his grumbling belly. He drank more as he tried to forget the faces-millions of faces-that were staring at him. He was surrounded, with eager people all around, but he, the Boy Who Lived, was not remembering the glamorously dressed people in the Great Hall; he was seeing a different circle of eager participants. They closed in on him, dressed entirely in black, faces masked in white; they had their wands raised.

He finished the contents of the bottle in his hand and then hurled it across the room; he watched as it shattered into a million shards.

A second one appeared in his hands, filled to the brim with yet more amber liquid. He didn't even look at it as he raised the new bottle to his mouth and ridded it of the addictive contents. He threw it against the wall again and Harry was now desperate to repress the unwanted memories, but his efforts were being done in vain. The alcohol though was only just beginning to take affect, as the edges soon started blurring.

At the point that just came before welcome unconsciousness, the door opened and admitted a smirking Severus Snape and an utterly piss-drunk Remus Lupin. As he was even more intoxicated than the werewolf was, Harry almost forgot to reapply his glamour; luckily though he was not forgetful when he was influenced, so he managed to build the illusion that hid his true face. Shooting a Sobriety charm first at himself and then at Lupin, he turned to face the glowing embers of the mounting fire.

He heard, but mostly ignored, the hushed conversation, between the Potions and the Defence Against the Dark Arts professors. He preferred to complete what the two adults have interrupted, and after a short while he heard a door slam shut. Harry thought himself alone, he let the glamour snapped and it left the boy Saviour vulnerable but completely relaxed.

That is until Snape dropped into the armchair beside him. Harry quickly reconstructed the illusion of flawlessness, which would leave him perfect, like he had never been. The words that the Potions Master spoke stopped him from commenting though.

"You are ruining my fun, Potter. And you can drop that glamour I have already seen what is beneath it."

Not knowing what else to do, Harry let the illusion slip. The scars were set in harsh light, courtesy of the glowing fire. The older wizard gasped softly when the younger turned to look at him. The glaring Saviour placed the glamour back up within seconds; he had grown quite proficient at building it up quickly.

"I thought you said you'd seen it," he accused, annoyed at having revealed himself.

"And now I have," was the smug reply. "I knew you were wearing glamour, just not what was under it. Now that I know, I would ask you to please remove it. I will not gape at you."

"You already have." Murmured Harry as he dropped the illusion again. He saw no point in keeping it in place if Snape already knew and had partially seen.

The Boy Who Lived jumped when he felt a gentle touch on his face; he tensed and froze. The finger traced the scars that marred his features and it trailed a line that went from his forehead to under his shirt, by which time the whole hand had gotten involved.

"How far down does this go?" asked Snape entranced with the angry shiny red lines.

"All the way down," replied Harry as he took a sip of the burning alcohol, signing with the pain as he did so. Severus didn't seem to notice.

"All the way down?" The Potions Master queried, intrigued despite himself.

"Down to my toes," Harry confirmed as he extracted a fag from the ever present box at his elbow. He lit it and a lengthy silence passed between the two wizards. They both drinking steadily from separate bottles until the quiet was finally it was broken; it was actually Harry who spoke first and shattered the peace.

"Remus?" He made the name a question. Snape seemed to understand because he replied.

"The mutt refuses come near me now. He will not even drink with me in the room anymore. The werewolf was the only substitute. I am most positive that he is an animal in the bedroom and it would have been amusing and no doubt educational."

"Sure," muttered the other in disbelief. He finished off his bottle and it was instantly replaced with another full one. "And you have to do it in here?"

"It is hardly my fault that you are always occupying this room when I wish to entertain someone," Snape half complained and half explained as an answer to Harry's question; it was almost a whine and the greasy man must have been drunker then he let on if he was doing such.

"And this could not be accomplished in your own rooms," retorted Potter.

"Yes, and get murdered in the morning, brilliant plan Potter. It really is a wonder that you have survived this long." Snape snorted and swigged from the bottle of fiery liquid. They lapsed into silence once more and Harry was angered by what the oily Potions Master had said. The man knew nothing of what he had to do to survive. No one did and Harry preferred it that way; he held his tongue. The glances of affection and admiration he already received were bad enough; he did not want looks of disgust and pity following him as well.

"Do you want to explain the glamour and what's beneath it?" Snape questioned after he'd drunk his fill.

"Not particularly," replied the boy moodily. He was still put off that he'd revealed himself, and to Severus Snape of all people. Then again it could be worse, he thought; it could have been Hagrid who couldn't keep a secret to save his life, or worse yet, Molly Weasley. Harry gulped at the thought. _That would be scary_.

"Though posed as a question, Mr. Potter, it was not one. Now explain yourself," Professor Snape suddenly thundered, raising his smooth voice somewhat.

The boy saviour snarled nastily and refused to answer.

"I am still your teacher, Potter, and you would do better to remember that," the Potions Masters threatened.

"Yes, sir," Harry muttered as he barely managing not to snarl again.

"I am waiting Potter," Snape snapped after several moments of brittle silence.

Harry sighed.

"**_The other day upon the stairs I saw a man who wasn't there. He wasn't there again today. How I wish he'd go away_**," recited Harry to the music only he could hear. It confused his waiting mentor enough that he didn't say anything for minutes, allowing Harry to mutter the rhyme to himself again.

It was only when the shock had worn off that Snape was able to pronounce one syllable, but it was enough to prompt Harry into speaking. With a dazed expression, as if still hearing the silent music Harry began to explain his rather odd out burst.

"That's what was going through my head when it happened. It's funny, while they were carving me up, the only thing I could think about was that rhyme**_. The other day upon the stairs, I saw a man who wasn't there._** It just kept re-playing through my mind, almost drove me over the edge, something so simple." The Saviour was staring intently at a single spot on the wall, glaring at it for all the intensity he was giving it.

"As interesting as that is," drawled Snape dryly, "it explains nothing of which I want answers for."

"I was getting to it, _Professor_," said Harry, emphasizing the last to remind the man to have patience. "As I was saying, while the words were running through my mind, Death Eater's cut patterns into my body, imprinting their mark and designs upon me."

Harry looked down at himself, a look of pure loathing. He knew were every scar and imperfection was; he traced them through his clothes with his eyes, his bottle of fire whiskey and the fag, the lattermost of which was forgotten in his hands. His eyes abruptly eyes caught something through the clothes that he obviously did not like; his gaze of revulsion intensified tenfold.

The older wizard cringed at the self-disgust that was issued in that one green gaze. He honestly pitied the boy for one so young shouldn't hold that much hate, especially not self hate.

"What is it?" The Potions Master couldn't help but ask. The said green eyes hadn't left the spot he stared at so intently for several minutes, the repulsion never lessening or diminishing in his eyes.

The boy spoke, as if only to himself, softly and almost brokenly. "The Dark Mark."

The bottle in that Snape was holding fell to the stone floor and shattering into a million pieces. Harry's jerked back to himself at the sound of breaking bottle, he seemed to realize what he'd just said, and to whom, because he stiffened and froze, hardly daring to even breath.

"Can I see it?" Asked the spy, again in that uncharacteristically low and soft voice. Harry mutely stood and raised his shirt. He pulled his pants down several inches as well and thrust his pelvis out. The Mark was as ugly on Harry as the one Snape had on his forearm. The tattoo was a crude brand in the shape of a snake slithering out of a leering skull; it was horrifying in its perfection and vivacity.

"I can feel it pressing down on me, wanting to break me. It tries to and it speaks to me," Harry whispered. Severus Snape had never seen or heard the Golden Boy sound so lost and alone. "It reminds me of where it came from and how it got there. It whispers so sweetly in Parseltongue so only I can hear it and understand it."

The Boy Who Lived forcefully hauled himself out of that particular memory; he would rather die then relive that experience again. That had been the first time and therefore the worst time that Voldemort had forced his attention on the raven haired youth.

Harry sank into his comfy chair and picked up the bottle and fag that he had dropped on the table when he'd stood earlier. He violently poured enough alcohol down his throat, more than enough to choke a lesser man. It did nothing more then make him sigh.

He had forgotten that a Professor of his was still in the room. The man spoke and made him jump.

"What does it say?" he asked again in his softer voice; the other shiver.

"Doch nu ein Hure schoin," hissed Harry in Germen. "But I am not, I am not," the Saviour whispered to himself as he stroked the bottle, finding comfort in its presence. He then smiled, but not a happy one Snape was surprised to see.

"It's funny," Harry Potter spoke without humour, "that the snake from the Mark is germen. Usually I just hear parseltongue English. How odd. I guess there are different types of snake language." He laughed, not knowing why; he just feeling it was the right thing to do.

The older wizard was severely disturbed by the ever changing moods that the boy displayed, but he decided to try and ignore it, opting to just continue drinking from the bottle that replaced his broken one.

Neither spoke for a long time as both were content to just sit and drink with Harry occasionally lighting up another fag. Unknown hours passed in silence, and it was Snape who was the first to drop off into the alcohol induced darkness. Harry, having a high tolerance, lasted nearly another full hour before he too linked his succumbed and joined his teacher in the land of unconsciousness.

They woke, almost simultaneously, with the fire still roaring and spreading its heat around the room, which had apparently decided to keep it going. The two looked once at each other before they both turned away as if repulsed by the company that they had kept. Snape rose from his chair and smoothed out his wrinkled robes. He scrunched up his nose as well as he watched Harry reach for the bottle that had just appeared from nowhere.

"Do you ever stop?" the teacher asked the student; he sounded disgusted and yet intrigued.

"To stop would be to quit, Professor, and quitting is just not in my blood, sir. It also keeps the hangover away," was the response he got before the other let the physical burning of the liquid take away the mental anguish.

The Potions Master, who was feeling the effects of the alcohol generously himself, said nothing more about the drinking, but he could not resist a comment about the Potter bloodline.

"Still the same idiotic brat as always, I see," he snarked, as he left the room with a swirl of black robes.

"Only when the mask is on," the Saviour said to the empty room, his face already perfect… once more.


	3. Chapter 3

The rest of the seventh year passed with Harry subtly avoiding Snape. He knew that now the man had incredible leverage over him and could order him to do anything and he would do it. No one else could know his secrets; he had wanted to take them to the grave.

As he had predicted, after the graduation ceremony ended Ron publicly proposed to Hermione, who, with a feminine squeak, accepted, as Harry knew she would. His mask was firmly in place when he congratulated the two, his voice holding real happiness for them. They deserved what he could not have.

The summer that followed was spent in a flutter of activity and anticipation. The bespectacled teen was not the only one who wanted the wedding planning to end; the rest of the Weasley boys had been left looking completely bored, yet through the planning and the parties that were hosted in different honours, the Saviour still managed to keep his unscheduled appointments at the muggle clubs. He had recently added dancing to the short list of things he still enjoyed. It was not the formal crap he was forced to manoeuvre through at the Yule Ball, but club dancing, which mostly entailed grinding into a perfect stranger and feeling them up with a swing in your step.

For once, Harry was not averse to the hands that roamed his body. With enough alcohol in his system he was able to forget the past, mostly, enjoying the present. He knew the hands wanted nothing he was not willing to give. These many hands touching him where fuelled by physical lust, they did not want his power, only his body. They did not want him dead, only more alive then he had the right to feel. These people did not want his emotionally scared person, only the shell it was in.

He naturally had never told anyone the details of his defeat of Lord Voldemort, about how all the known Death Eaters, and some other rather shady characters, had simply vanished. The guilt had settled in his gut and stayed, not un-ignored. It was not that he was feeling bad, just guilty if that made any sense what so ever.

The surprise of the summer did not happen until the eve of the wedding. Harry had gone out, intending to get soundly smashed and laid, hoping it would give him the extra sanity he required to make it through the ceremony tomorrow. In the muggle club, he had never intended to do it with a wizard; it would have been like going to the press and giving a first hand account of his stupidest moment ever, but when Draco Malfoy, who had defected to the light side, and a bunch of his likewise Slytherin friends walked in, Harry could not resist the temptation. It was like Snape had said, "its perfect blackmail."

Unfortunately it probably would have been better blackmail if he could deliberately tell Malfoy who he had fucked; as it was, he was too paralytic to, and he dared not risk letting his secret out.

At the moment he was just another face in the crowd, having hidden the famous scar and leaving all the others bare. It was without a doubt that Malfoy would never recognise him; no one would, as they had no idea who Harry Potter was.

He waved a waitress over. Oblivisci, the club he was in, was one of the few places that still retained the tradition of waiters and waitresses. At the other clubs one had to get up and personally go to the bar for a drink. It was one of the main reasons Harry liked this club so much, as he could drown himself and not need to get up every few minutes to refill. He also found that he connected well with the name of the place, and with that he ordered a drink of hard liquor, first for himself, then something good but not as alcoholic for Malfoy. That done, he sent the flirtatious waitress on her way, but before long she was back with his tipple, and he saw Malfoy receiving his own. Harry was pointed at by the waitress, and in response he raised his glass in salute, before drowning the contents in one, a smirk firmly in place. It grew as he saw the Slytherin tip his back as well. After the blond was finished he started to make his way across the floor.

It was almost too easy, Harry thought to himself, but if they were going to come to him willingly, who was he to complain?

Unfortunately for him though, the troupe of groupies had followed their pale leader over. Harry could not recognise them all, but he was pretty certain that each and every one of them were the usual ass-kissers that hung out with Captain Peroxide. He just did not see how the other wizard could possibly have hair naturally that colour.

The Saviour leaned back, his vinyl pants squeaking with the friction as he waited for them to come closer. He signalled another waiter for a new drink, figuring that he could use one more.

_I can always use one more._

He turned to signal, and when he straightened himself found that his prey had arrived, but regrettably there was an unexpected guest amongst the number, one that Harry had not counted on. He hissed and stood up, his eyes never leaving the sallow countenance that belonged to Severus Snape.

_What the fuck is HE doing in a muggle club with Malfoy?_

Harry questioned himself furiously inside his own head, whilst the man in question was merely content to just stare back intently. The Potions Master opened his mouth to speak, and started to pronounce the all too familiar name.

"Pot-"

"Patrick," Harry quickly amended with a glare; he flashed a quickly innocent and sexy look at Draco, "but you can call me Tricks," he continued, feeding the group the alias that he had created for himself.

"I had no idea that you'd be here tonight Severus," he shot at his sarcastic professor, deliberately using his given name, enjoying the way it rolled off his tongue. The owner shivered.

"Tricks," Snape started, emphasizing the nickname, "my godson here is responsible; he wanted to take me out for my birthday."

"Your birthday?" the Boy Wonder repeated. "Well I think that deserves a dance." And without waiting for a reply, to which he was sure would have been negative, he winked at Malfoy and dragged the Potions Master onto the dance floor, where he slowly ground himself into the man. He moved them across the floor in the process, until they were out of sight of Draco and his line of vision. It was safe to talk, although as they had travelled across the room, neither had been keen on talking, but both were unwilling to say anything about it. Aroused, sweating and looking gorgeously dangerous, they sat at the table that Harry had quickly vacated with a glare. There was a moment more of silence, and then he spoke, quiet and commanding.

"You need to leave," the Boy Who Lived stated calmly.

"Why should I be the one to leave? Why not you?" Snape asked sharply, utterly unperturbed by the younger wizard.

"Because this is my domain, my sanctuary and you have no right!" The other yelled backed at his teacher as he lost his composure. The sight of a familiar, magical face, of someone who would recognise him in a jiffy and in his muggle sanctum, had thrown him completely. He did not like surprises; they were usually followed by pain. They meant that he was getting sloppy, and Harry was disallowed from being such, or improper, or broken…

It seemed that Harry was ill fitted to the description that people addressed him with. Severus had heard Harry scream before, and had even had it directed at him; the yelling was not what was bothering him, though he felt like reprimanding the Potter boy for bursting out so, and at a teacher. However, he was presently more concerned with the tears that seemed to be welling behind the thick mask that the Saviour had fought so hard to create. Even amongst the muggles that knew nothing of his past, or even his present, that did not praise him and land at his feet, Harry was not himself. He wrapped an image that he was not around his body; he used it as a shield against the harsh coldness of humanity.

Snape knew what it felt like to hide, to wear masks upon masks, until one forgot where the masks ceased and the real skin begun. One came to disregard everything; who one was and who was another. With this thought in mind, he reached out and lightly touched the hand that Harry had resting on the tabletop. The younger wizard started and looked wildly around before his eyes came to rest on the Potions Master, as if he had just noticed that the latter was there. He gazed into the onyx pools, getting lost in the dark world at their depths.

"Are you alright Mr. Potter?" Snape queried loudly over the music. Harry pushed himself away from the table, withdrawing rapidly. The other jerked forwards and caught his hand, repeating his question as he did so.

The Boy Who Lived laughed bitterly.

"Dear professor," Harry started," is there anyway you'd take yes as an answer?"

"No," was the reply.

"Very well then, I have no comment."

"You have been to too many press conferences, Mr. Potter; they have started to addle your brain."

"I assure you my good professor; my brain was addled long before the press conferences."

The tears that had been filling the green eyes were gone, as if by magic. They disappeared into the emerald depths; Harry altered his expression in the same way he altered his mood. Snape eased his grip off of his arm, but he did so and sat back slowly. His shoulders eased.

The boy would not break-at lest not yet.

The silence between them lasted only seconds.

"So, you are leaving?" Harry asked conversationally.

"I had not planned on doing so, no." Snape answered as he looked around the room with a critical eye.

Harry slammed his fist into the table, hissing, "You need to leave, the wedding's tomorrow! I _need_ this!"

He was almost begging; Snape did not see him on his knees though.

"The wedding?"

"Yes, Ron and Hermione's. Mrs. Wesley wanted a traditional ceremony. Do you know how fucking long I am going to have to keep it together? People will be looking at me and not the bloody bride."

The famous teenager vented his frustration to a degree that left a small dent where his fist had hit the table. Snape looked intently at him, assessing the state of his mind as Harry felt bare beneath the gaze. It was only after some time that the Potions Master nodded slowly and rose from his seat.

"I shall leave you to your muggle entertainment," The older man said 'muggle' like it was a dirty word, "on the one condition that you come to the Yule Ball at Hogwarts."

Harry gave a muffled laugh, but it only came out bitter again. He could tell that the other disliked the sound.

"I truly doubt anyone would let me miss it-"

"Then I shall meet you in the Room of Requirement, just as usual." At the savours curious glance he added, "Alone."

And with that, he disappeared into the writing crowd, in the direction they Malfoy had last been in. Harry swore colourfully, as now he had to show up at the accursedly damned party. He released another string of vulgar words. He had lost his chance to bed Malfoy, as well as the opportunity to brag about it too. He would need to find someone else for the night. Travelling down, Harry made his way into the middle of the dance floor. When he reached what was approximately the very centre he began to dance. Within moments the floor was packed more tightly then before; bodies of both women and men were pressed against him.

It looked like would be getting some tonight after all.

The wedding went off without a hitch; Molly bawled her eyes out openly as Albus Dumbledore performed the sacramental duties. Within a matter of hours, Ron and Hermione were wed. The time for speeches came and went, with Harry saying the appropriate best man things. As a surprise gift, he bought the two newlyweds, who also happened to be his best friends, a country manor. He had plenty of money, and saw little else to do with his great hordes of gold.

He managed to slip away not long after that; a heavenly flask of firewhiskey made its holy way to his lips. To him getting soundly drunk and falling into unconsciousness sounded like a really good idea; it always had its appeal anyway. Visions of the wedding flashed before his eyes. So many people, all staring and smiling.

_The lucky bastards. _

They always had the opportunity to move on with their lives, or at the very least pretended very well that things were good. He did not get that luxury, and nor could he forget the past. He was constantly reminded that he was a hero and the "Saviour of the Wizarding World". It was often said that one cannot run from the past; Harry wondered many times if he could manage it instead of staying here.

The flask was empty by this point in his ruminations, as the memories in his head drove him to gulp the contents down. He wished to forget the images

The world sucks, Harry thought, as he left without a goodbye and Apparated to Grimmauld Place.

The evening of the Yule Ball found Harry at Hogwarts, just as he had promised he would be. However, that did not stop him from wishing that he was elsewhere or able leave at any moment. He had to wait for that special moment to present itself, so he wait with a fag in his mouth. As he was the Boy Who Lived, he was allowed to smoke inside the castle, whereas other, more mundane and normal wizards were not.

Harry saw Snape several times before he finally vacated the Great Hall. The Potions Master mostly stood in the corner by himself or talking to someone individually. It seemed that he was as fond of crowds as much as Harry was.

The Room of Requirement was as its usual self when he reached it; only now the chair that usually appeared for Snape was already present. The bespectacled teenager sat, fag half finished in his hand, and grabbed for the bottle he was sure would be waiting for him so he could settle. It was not long at all before Snape arrived. The older man walked in without flinching at what the younger really looked like, and the latter just kept gazing into the fire anyway, his eyes slowly drying as the former took the empty chair and plucked another bottle from nowhere. His sour fellow said nothing, so he slowly turned his head towards him.

"Did you enjoy yourself at Oblivisci?" He asked the question in the hope of starting a conversation, for what he really wanted would have to happen later, when the boy was intoxicated.

"I indulged myself," Harry replied cryptically.

The Potions Master said nothing.

"Is there a reason I am here?"

"I find myself enjoying your presence," the greasy wizard answered.

"No date tonight?"

"A very special one, Mr. Potter."

Harry hummed his understanding as silence descended. It was pleasant though, but both wanted to break it., and Snape was the one who managed to do so.

"Many people were staring at you, Potter. Everyone is awed by your very presence. Are you basking in it?"

"No." The reply was blunt. "But as long as they don't crowd around, I'll be fine and they can continue to do as they wish." Harry watched as the empty bottle refilled itself, the murky water slowly shifting the ratio of liquid to air in its favour.

"Is there something interesting in that bottle? Surely, Potter, after attending a school of magic for seven years you have seen it before. Refilling a glass is a sixth year charm, and one that even your incompetent fellow Gryffindor Longbottom has been able to accomplish."

"Neville's a very competent wizard," Harry retorted, filling his stomach with the cloudy substance.

"You have not answered my question, Potter. I do not like to be ignored. I want to know what you find so riveting about an empty bottle."

For some reason Snape felt the need to pursue this particular topic.

"The alcohol it contains is what fascinates me. The substance allows me to separate my mind from my body for a stint. The liquid gives me peace and relief, almost hope. The drink that burns soothes as it goes down; the addiction holds and keeps my attention. The addiction that always works."

"I do not believe that what you are describing is an addiction."

Harry laughed shakily.

"I am addicted to the smell, the taste, the pain as it travels down my throat. I constantly long for the unconscious state it gives me. I yearn for the feel of intoxication. I assure you, professor, that I _am_ addicted to alcohol, as well as smoking. It would be impossible for me to stop with either-"

"It is _improbable_; not impossible, and I truly doubt that the situation is not as dramatic as you present it to be."

Harry signed heavily; Snape appeared not to understand.

"Sir, I have what some might call an addictive personality."

"It would be best if you give that angle up, Potter; not everyone worships you."

"No, that's not what I mean. It's a muggle condition, a muggle term," corrected the boy-who-lived.

"Then there is no wonder why it makes no sense."

"It means," Harry continued as if he had never heard his teacher, "that I cannot help getting addicted to something. I just _have_ to be addicted. It doesn't really matter what."

Snape regarded his student warily.

"Potter, you are making no sense; this is all in your mind, you are imagining it-"

"I am not! It's real! It's a true illness in the muggle world!" Harry felt frustrated at the older man not believing him.

"Yes, and so is cancer." The Potions Master muttered to himself. The conversation effectively ended there and then.

An hour past before Snape decided that Harry was drunk enough for what he wanted. He figured that, had the boy been sober, even half way, that the opportune moment might not have occurred, yet under the influence of alcohol, he stood a chance. He stood and moved to hover before Harry, who was slumped in his chair. A fag bobbed in his mouth as he drowsily watched his bottle refill itself for the second time. The older wizard loomed over the younger and tore the smouldering fag from his lips, before tossing the thing into the blazing grate.

"These things will kill you." He hissed, leaning closer.

"Better them then someone, or something else." Harry whispered.

There was a moment of silence, and then the Boy Who Lived breathed, "You're awfully close, professor Snape."

'Awfully close' was a slight understatement, as the teacher nearly had his mouth against those of his student, to whom he replied quietly, "I am, am I not? Does it bother you?"

Harry had no time to say no, as their lips met and sparks flew. The boy dropped the bottle of firewhiskey he was holding and instead cropped it through the surprisingly silky hair that Snape had. Said Potions Master slipped onto the armchair so that he straddled the boy. Their mouths remained locked and their hands travelled as the chair morphed in to a bed. The younger found himself pushed backwards by his teacher, who had not expected the sudden piece of transfiguration. All the same, they never lost contact with each other, and although Harry could have happily gone without air, so never ending the kiss and eventually suffocating in the process, his partner had much more in mind for the night… much more then just a particularly passionate kiss.

Snape broke off the kiss and reached down with his hands to undo the buttons on the expensive dress robes that Harry was wearing. The boy reciprocated the action with the black ones that his teacher was wearing; almost too quickly, the pair of them were only partially undressed, with only their boxers left on. Not one to be deterred, Harry started to lick, nibble and kiss every part of the sallow body that was now exposed to his ravishing caresses. The owner merely moaned to show his gratitude and compliance, but the former found that he was unable to reach that much skin from his present position. Therefore, he made an attempt to reverse things, but Snape being on top apparently had other ideas. He caught the pale lips with his own; a battle of dominance ensued, one that Harry soon lost.

The Potions Master managed to do some exploring of his own as his stained fingers traces numerous scars delicately and sensually. There were some particularly sensitive ones that he made a mental note of, and there was only one part of his pliant victim that he stayed away from; the left hip. This was because he had no intention of making the other uncomfortable, as that would probably follow on later.

Harry chose that moment to bite Snape, an act that dislodged the man from his thoughts as the taste of blood trickled into their tangled mouths. The teenager merely grinned and made his teacher growl deep in his throat; he all but attacked the boy and the swelling lips, spilling Potter's blood in seconds. The two mingled, power rose and magic crackled in the charged air; if it was possible, their lust and passion grew to incalculable heights.

They were naked in a flash; there was no more time for foreplay as urgent need took over. Snape turned Harry, who was already begging for it, around. There was no time for preparation; the Potions Master pushed in hard and fast, turning the groan into a moan from the younger wizard. He pulled out a little more carefully, as he was more conscious of his partner, but with the same speed as his first thrust, he went back in. The Boy Who Lived bucked his hips and gasped for him to move faster. Snape complied, after he pulled almost all the way out, he slammed back and sent Harry into more spasms of pleasure. Encouraged, he dug in deeper, moving harder and faster.

Until finally the magic cracked and they both came; Snape still buried deep inside Harry, although he shortly but gently pulled his limp member out and collapsed beside teenager. When he looked at the latter and saw that he seemed to be coming down from a high or something. His breathing was irregular and his usually vibrant emerald eyes were dull and glazed over. It was some minutes more before Harry was able to form a coherent sound into a word.

"Fuck." he gasped sharply.

He suddenly found himself in the missionary position with Severus doing a sort of push-up stance above him. The hook-nosed man leant down close to the Saviour.

"Doch ein Hure Schoin," he breathed in his ear, "I am quite fluent in German, Mr. Potter." He ended on a hiss; the youth in question went ridged at his words, and the Potions Master lifted his hand, trailing it down the said stiffened body. He came to the Dark Mark that stood out bolding on the bony left hip; he caressed it slowly, tracing the macabre design.

"Did you enjoy being fucked by the Dark Lord?" he questioned, a dark brow raised in silent query; his gaze and stance were unwavering. Green eyes widened until they were the size of saucers almost, and the voice that spoke came out strangled and small.

"What...how do you know about _that_?" Harry asked, putting more emphasis and more importance on the last word than one normally would for such a sentence. Snape took his hand from the cruel tattoo and instead stroked the cross shaped scar that the boy had on his face. The Saviour was unable to control his reaction; he flinched, and his teacher only smirked.

"Scared Potter?"

Harry said nothing.

"I know all about the events in the caves; the three weeks of imprisonment. I was fucking Luscius at the time for information. Tell me, is it true-he told me that you moaned most after being abused, that you had masochistic tendencies. I would never have thought... but I will let you in on a small secret of mine," he eyes glinted, "…I am a bit of a sadist myself."

There was no reply to that either; the emerald eyes though seemed lost and unseeing but for the unseeable. Old images of pain, of suffering, of pleasure, passed through his mind at an incredible speed; they still left an impression though. The one secret that Harry Potter hoped no one would ever uncover had been discovered. He needed-_wanted_-to leave immediately, but Snape was reluctant to finish with him just yet.

"I think we should test that theory. Shall we see if the rumours were true, for once?'"

Harry had been abused before; he expected to be smacked or scarified, or even stabbed. He had not however, expected to be bitten, and on the jugular at that.

"Shit!" he shouted, but this time with more feeling. He struggled away from his teacher.

"You're a bloody Vampire. Those damn rumours were true!"

A/N: Sorry this took so damn long. I am lazy and was stupid enough to write up thirteen pages, only to realise I had to type it up later. Well that took a while, but as you can all see, I did manage it. There should only be one more chapter in this story. I hope you've liked it, and will read some of my other stories. Please REVIEW so I know you actually like it. Thanks once again to my beta.


	4. Chapter 4

After the bite, Harry had fallen unconscious due to blood loss. The thought of waking had never flitted across his mind. Fortunately, or un-, depending on your point of view, the saviour woke with the dawn, alone and weirdly enough feeling exhilarated. He'd taken several moments to recall the events of the prior evening and when he did, Harry clamped a hand to his neck in subjective horror. The wound, thankfully, had closed, white and shinny. This was yet another scar to add to the impressive, but unseen collection.

But fuck, he felt fantastic. There was the bliss of a hang over but without the disgusting taste in his mouth. Potter couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this whole. Sure Snape had used and abused him, but really, for a former death eater, it was expected.

The vampire part though, that was totally unexpected and the saviour did not appreciate surprises. He despised them in all actuality, and after his stay in Voldemorts layer it wasn't really a question of why. There where rumours about Snape in Harry's school days, there always are, but no one had ever believed them. Except maybe Neville Longbottom.

The saviour left the room of requirement feeling both terrified and terrible. He could still remember Snape whispering to him in germen. It sent shivers down his spine, he wasn't sure whether they were of pleasure or terror. Both would have been equally appalling.

He left Hogwarts without talking or seeing anyone, a clean break. Moving to the edges of the wards, he apparated away to his lonely and desolate apartment.

In the next few days, Harry didn't feel the need to drink, or even smoke. He felt a different craving. But he knew only one man could take away the urge inside him. The one man he wanted never to see again. But the saviour was desperate for a release, as well as desperate to make it work without Severus.

He tracked down other vampires, allowing them to bite him in a futile attempt to fill the void. The feeling just wasn't the same; he'd had to stake the vampires, usually doing so in a rage. This was just another secrete to be kept from his public.

He went back to drinking, smoking and grinding to a beat, loud beyond anything the eardrum could possibly take, in a club. This eased the craving slightly, but it was always present, just pulsing under the surface. It was like a hunger he couldn't state. The number of bottles he empted, or the number of asses he pounded into, didn't mater; the void was ever present. But it could not compare to the pain of the memories that resurfacing, that were getting harder and harder to repress.

The solution to all his problems, though fairly simple and easy, was not a road he was ready to walk down. Potter was looking into all possible alternatives, before running to follow that one. He knew there would be no turning back once he'd stepped onto that path.

Harry really didn't like ultimatums; he was usually the one getting hurt in the end. But after another gruelling week, this wasn't a choice any more. Nevertheless, the saviour was still human, and like all humans confronted with an awful but unyielding truth he responded with a human reaction. He completely and utterly denied it.

The boy who lived flung himself with even more force into the few pleasures that were left to him. Abandoning his public persona, Potter consumed himself with his pleasures, roughly to the point of despising them. In the space of one night, one hazy mistake, Harry Potter, had destroyed his only hope of happiness. Which left him lost, confused and with only one path left unblocked to travel.

It was an entirely sober saviour that arrived at Hogwarts School of witchcraft and wizardry on a bleak afternoon. Although sober, his mind felt muddled and confused; there were no coherent thoughts pressing his mind. There was no pattern to his logic, no reason for his conclusions, and yet they made sense. Searching through his past, his mind concluded that this was the only possible outcome. There was no future for him, other than this path, this end.

Harry entered through the front gates, giving him the finest view of the castle. Hogwarts, the only place Potter had ever considered home, from this perfect vantage point had only ever been seen through a filter of twilight. The light of day affected the atmosphere around the castle certainly, but it could not take away its beauty. Walking through the gates of his own accord, carried dying or unconscious; the castle had never looked more appealing to the young hero. Unexpected as he was, he hastened inside, wasting no time lingering out front. One sweeping glance was all it took to take in its pulsing magnificence, its glowing splendour.

As he walked the long deserted halls of his former school, he realized with absent minded profundity, that there really was no end to it all. It was everywhere, around every corner, it was throbbing just below the surface of every tile lain one before the other. And in this pathetic moment of realization Harry came to understand what every other student who had passed through these halls had known. Hogwarts was magic, that it would not lead him astray. This conclusion made him believe truly that this was the right choice. And in the end that's all there is, choice. Not someone else orders or another persons thoughts or feelings.

It was not determination that sparked the saviour's eye as he strolled down the darkened halls of his home, but simple truth and just a touch of peace. With his scattered thoughts, his illogical answers, and redefined frame of mind; the boy descended into the depths.

The door was far less foreboding then he remembered, it was after all only a portrait. He knocked, and then entered without waiting for the denied entrance he was sure to receive. The chambers were all that he had expected them to be; dark, gloomy, with just a touch of class and culture. It was perfectly Severus Snape.

"I am here," the saviour called out, standing in the doorway.

"As I knew you would be," replied a voice from deep inside the suite.

"Care to step into the light? So I might speak to you face to face?"

"That is not the real reason you wish to speak to me in person." Said the man in a statement rather then a question. The boy said nothing. "Speak the truth and I shall grant your wish," promised the silky voice.

"You know nothing of my wish."

"You want death," answered Snape as he came out of his private lab disregarding his earlier promise. He looked immaculate, as he usually did. There wasn't a single difference from when the boy had met him nine years prior. It really was a mystery how no one had yet noticed the truth.

"I can't take it anymore. The memories, Merlin, the flash backs. The voices, they call to me, asking me to come home. I am home. And yet… and yet, I am not. I have always called Hogwarts my home, but I see now that it never was. This castle is a sanctuary, not a home. I've never had a home. Their offer is just so tempting." Here Harry gave Severus a long measuring look. "And I have never been one to resist temptation. For long anyhow," said Potter, his voice low and controlled, his tone growing warm at the mention of a true home.

"Come to me, I can give you this home you so desire." The boy who lived hesitated only for a moment, knowing in his heart this was the right decision but his mind forever questioned it.

"You cannot cheat the way of the world forever Potter. You were born and so you shall die, as it has always been. Till the end of days." Locked in not a passionate embrace, but a comforting one, the saviour replied.

"Sie wenden sein vergessen. Will you remember me Severus?" the boy looked up, into the eyes of the one that held him close. His expression for once open, innocent, lost and completely vulnerable.

"Who will be there to remember who I was? When the sun wanes and the sky falls from the night?" Continued the boy who'd never grown up.

"I will be there, forever and always, tell the end of all days. I shall be here. Have no fear Mr. Potter; the world shall forget your deeds, your name and your sacrifices in time. But in me, you shall live forever," whispered the vampire.

Harry looked down, unable to meet the potion masters gaze, the offer almost too much to take. Thankful that he needn't express his gratitude in words, he let his deeds speak for him. Action outstripped the meaning of words, and soon thoughts.

"It's all about trust," murmured Snape before he bit in selfishly, his fangs flashing gracefully downwards. He sank into the saviour, knowing full well that this was not what the boy wanted. It was only a taste. After a second Severus let Harry Potter go, his knees weak from the bite, he dropped to the ground, as if a man kneeling before his god.

The saviour gazed up to his god, a pleading look tearing through his expressive orbs.

"You will know pain," his god whispered before first backhanding the boy, the kissing him sweetly, "and pleasure."

Their clothes stayed on only long enough for Snape to rip them off. The potion master bit, licked and scratched every part of Harry' torso he could touch, giving both pain and pleasure equally. He was rewarded by strangled cries and sluggish moans. There was even a softly whispered "Severus," in there somewhere.

Then, without warning, Snape flipped Potter over and drove into him. The boy cried pitifully in pain. Snape bent down to Harry' ear and spoke harshly in German.

Wanting to get away, Harry couldn't take the emotional strain he was being subjected to, attempted to pull away. Only then did Severus bite down on the saviours' neck.

Harry Potter convulsed twice, coming as he died in the arms of his undead lover. The blood pooling from his veins into the mouth of another.

Body white, lips red, face content. The saviour died.

A/N: ok there's the "ending." But I've thought up an alternate ending so I will post a chapter 5. However if you prefer closer, don't read it. Hope you enjoyed, review, don't review at this point its more for my benefit putting this up then yours. Ok well, ta.


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